A True Underdog Story
by Little Webby
Summary: An inter lab ice hockey tournament – need I say any more? An attempt at a little humour and fluff. GregSara friendship... maybe more... WIP
1. A First Attempt

DISCLAIMER: All the junk in my room, yeah, that's mine… but these characters? Come on, do I really look as though I might be called CBS? Sadly not…

SUMMARY: An inter-lab ice-hockey tournament – need I say any more? An attempt at a little humour and fluff

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't usually write anything remotely humorous or fluffy, neither do I play ice-hockey so please bear with me and feel free to point out any inaccuracies. Reviews will make my day.

* * *

'You have got to be kidding me. Nu uh, no way, I would much rather work a triple here. You have enough without me, yeah? I think Ecklie said something anyway and I'm supposed to….' 

'Sara...' Grissom cuts me off mid sentence.

'Yeah?' I look up hopefully, no longer attempting to find excuses by looking at the ceiling, the floor or anywhere where there isn't one of my colleagues sitting.

'You're playing.' Grissom speaks with decisiveness in a way that only he can, telling me that there is absolutely no point in arguing.

'It's only a bit of fun with emphasis on the team-building element of it as much as the competition itself. You're starting as a forward with Greg and Warrick. Catherine and Nick will be playing defence and I'm goaltending. Brass, Hodges and a few others are going to come along as subs but aren't exactly keen on playing.'

Greg can't contain his excitement any longer. 'This is going to be so wild. The other labs had better watch out, the Greg-master is in town!'

I can't help but laugh, however hard I am trying to show that I am unimpressed with arrangements. Greg seems to have this effect on people. You just can't help but smile when he is around.

'I've booked the rink for the end of the shift just so we can at least get a bit of practice. So go off, do your jobs and we'll meet there.'

Usually it's easy to measure the mood in the break-room but this… this is different. For Nick and Greg it might as well be Christmas morning. Both seem to be discussing tactics or, in fact, anything remotely hockey related for the entire shift. Without quite sharing their enthusiasm, Catherine and Warrick certainly seem to be looking forward to the experience and the opportunity of some time neither at home nor at work. So, it's just me who isn't looking forward to it then. Oh well, maybe something will come up so that I can't get out of it.

* * *

'Are you coming or what?' a voice suddenly brings me back to reality. The shift had been a quiet one and so I have taken to going over some old cases. My lack of success on this front is certainly not helping my mood – neither is Nick's chirpy face at the door. 

'I guess…' I know that there is no point arguing over it and that I might as well get the whole ordeal over with. Anyway, I'm sure that it won't be me who will be making the excuses for why I shouldn't be on the team by the time that this practice is over.

The rink's just up the road and, for that, I am grateful so that I don't have to put up with Nick's incessant hockey-talk for much longer. The others are already there and kitting up by the time that we arrive and so I set about following their example. While I am quite impressed by the speed that I figure out which pad goes where, I still manage to be the last one out on the ice by a good five or ten minutes.

'_C'mon Sidle, it can't be that hard. Look at the others. If Greg can make it look that easy then it really can't be that bad. And Catherine and Grissom… they can't have done it that much before, must be easy to pick up.' _

Tentatively I step out onto the ice, very much aware of the fact that there are many pairs of eyes now focussed entirely on me.

'_OK… this feels a little strange… I'll just use the side a bit until I get my balance a little better….'_

I stay there, clinging to the side and my skates slip and slide on the ice beneath me.

'_Don't look at them Sidle, they'll just be getting on with their drills and paying absolutely no attention to you whatsoever. OK, OK, who am I kidding? I can hear the laughter from over here. No Greg, please don't come over, please don't come over. You're coming over…'_

'Need a hand?'

'_Does it look as though I need a hand? Of course I need a hand, I can barely stand up, let alone chase after a puck, tackle, score and whatever else all of you expect me to do. You're not laughing though, you almost seem sincere… wow! Greg can be sincere! Can he?_

'Yeah, that'd be great thanks.' I find myself answering and reaching out to take hold of the stick that he is holding out for me.

'I take it you haven't skated before then?'

'_You're joking, right? Yeah, you know, I used to be a professional but then completely forgot how to do it after diving head first into one of these boards. Of course I haven't skated before.'_

'Nope, never. How'd you make it look so easy anyway?'

Greg shrugs nonchalantly. 'I guess I did a bit as a kid and it's like riding a bike. You can't forget how to skate.'

'_There goes my story about being a professional. I seem to be getting a bit better at this. It's quite fun really. Let's just try letting go of Greg's stick for a while, I feel quite stable. Oh… maybe not… don't these things have brakes? How do you stop? No, No, I don't want to be going towards those boards… why am I still going towards the boards? Oh '_

'Sara, are you ok?' Greg is immediately over to where I am now lying on the ice.

'_One head, two arms, two legs. Yes, everything still seems to be here'_

'Yeah, thanks.' I try to get up as if to prove that it's nothing and that I am perfectly fine but somehow find myself keep coming back to the exact same position, lying flat on the ice. Fearing that I might look even more stupid than I already feel, I take hold of Greg's hand that he is holding out for me and use it to help myself back up to my feet. I have a feeling that this skating lark isn't going to be as easy as it looks.

* * *

By the end of the session, I ache all over. I feel quite proud of myself though – by the end I was just about skating by myself and was even starting to hit a few pucks. Add to that the fact that my number of falls stayed in single figures… or at least close to single figures… ok, ok, less than twenty then and I think I have reason to celebrate and to enjoy breakfast with the others. 

I've still got three or four practices until the tournament… if only I could just stay on my feet and maybe even skate at more than a snail's pace….

Griss gets a call just as we are being served breakfast. There's been a homicide in town, and so Griss and I are going to head off to the scene because they need a couple of extra CSIs. At last, back in my territory.

TBC….


	2. WipeOut

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

**Jenn Sidle, TheMusicalPoet & Tabby Bee **– thanks for reviewing! I'm glad that you are enjoying it.

**Lemonjelly **– I'm not quite sure where my allegiances lie with CSI partnerships yet but fancied a stab at a GregSara fic, just to play with a few ideas. I've taken a look at your C2 and I hope that this chapter doesn't disappoint.

**SpeedRacer15 **– Thanks very much for the tips –VERY useful (and I hope you see that they have been put to good use in this chapter!) I've only skated once before myself and seemed to eat a lot of ice - it never occurred to me that it might be easier with a stick! And as for who they are playing, my idea is to have them playing against a few other labs. I was debating a Cross-Over but I don't really know enough about CSI: Miami and CSI: NY for this to happen, so I think I'm going to stick to other labs that haven't (as yet!) made a TV appearance!

* * *

Morbid though this sounds, I'd been hoping for a challenging case to get stuck into when the homicide had come through. Something slightly complicated to get the brain-cells working and to keep them occupied. Sadly, I was to be disappointed. Not only had the moron of a husband left the murder weapon (a kitchen knife – for the record) by the side of the deceased, but he had left his fingerprints all over it, had a pathetic excuse for an alibi and the perfect motive as well – money (unoriginal at best) 

And so it is that I find myself back home by midday, replaying the events that had occurred between the last time that I had been contemplating sleep and now. It has been well over twenty four hours and yet I surprisingly not tired. I'd offered to go and do some extra work at the lab to help with a bit of a backlog that they managed to find themselves with but had been instructed by Grissom not to. And so I feel at a bit of a loose end and find myself going over to the fridge to examine the contents.

Not long after this, I'm back on the sofa with the results of my search – a couple of ice cold cans of beer. I know that I shouldn't, but it feels right. I pull the tab and hear the reassuring hiss as beer mixes with air and starts to foam. But, even before I can take the first swig, I feel my cell-phone vibrate in my pocket.

'Sidle' I answer instinctively, not even looking at the ID of the caller as I presume that it must be Grissom changing his mind over my offer of help.

'Hi Sara, it's Greg..' he starts. And I could swear that he sounds slightly nervous, even through his attempt to sound his usual bubbly, confident self

'Hey' I reply, it coming out slightly more defensive than intended, and then, without wanting to, find myself continuing in the same vein 'Not calling to gloat about earlier, are you? Because, if so, I'm really not interested. Yeah, I fell over a few times but….'

'I thought you did really well actually… it took guts to stay out there and keep going with it.' Greg cuts me off but I sure am glad that he does. He doesn't deserve any of the rubbish that comes out of my mouth.

'Thanks… and sorry,' I manage sincerely, happy for the first time that I might have said something close to reasonable.

'Don't mention it. I was just wondering if you fancied a bit of a practice actually. I mean, you're probably sleeping and I probably just woke you up which is why you're so ratty but, well, the offer's there…'

I smile thoughtfully. It definitely seems like a better cure for insomnia than turning to alcohol. And, more than that, I don't think I can stand another session with all the others unless I improve just a little bit...

'Yeah, that sounds great, thanks. I'll meet you at the rink in half an hour?'

* * *

In fact, it's about an hour before we actually get onto the ice. But it certainly feels more natural than the first time when we do. I skate around quite happily for the first ten minutes or so, using my stick to help with my balance while Greg gives me the occasional tip. I can really feel myself picking up speed and even have the confidence to put in a few more turns and stops and I go along. 

Greg decides that it's a good idea if we skate around for a while, hitting the puck around as we do so. While I did this a bit last time, it certainly feels like a step in the right direction. And, luckily for me, Greg is good enough to make even my poor attempts at passes look surprisingly reasonable. Added to that, he even makes them sound good as well.

'A cleaver little short pass by Sidle there' he commentates as he sprints towards me to collect one that, well…. isn't very well struck on my part.

'And now she hits one long so that Sanders can have a clear run on goal' he talks at well over two hundred miles an hour as he skates equally quickly to gather a pass that is well struck but not so well directed and then coolly continues to place a shot low into the right corner of the net. 'And he finishes to the crowd's delight.'

I can't help but laugh as he skates over to his imaginary crowd to take in their 'applause'

'And now, my pupil, it is time to learn from the Sanders school of shooting.' He skates back over as he speaks and races through the theory of shooting; showing me where my hands should be positioned on the stick, how my body should be positioned, how to strike the puck and lots more besides. But then he speaks the dreaded words – 'Why don't you have a go?'

I can think of plenty of reasons why I shouldn't have a go and yet still find myself taking up a position on the ice from where I can practice taking shots on goal. At first it goes well, really well in fact, and I find myself managing to hit shots with at least an element of precision and power. And, more than that, for the first time I can actually see why Nick and Greg get so excited about this sport.

'Do you want to try dribbling up a bit and then letting a few shots fly?' Greg asks. 'It'll make it more like a game situation that way.'

I nod, feeling, I must admit, quite confident. I dribble the puck backwards a bit before turning and facing the goal. I take a second or two to compose myself and to listen to Greg's commentary.

'_The rookie Sidle is preparing to set off now from her stationary start. She takes off now, picking up considerable speed and keeping the puck under mesmerising control'_

Whatever Greg might be saying, 'control' is certainly not a word that is in the forefront of my mind. The goal is now looming, the perfect time to get the shot away.

'_Now would be the time that everyone would be expecting Sidle to shoot before she gets too close to the goal.'_

Yes, yes – I'm **trying **to shoot already but the puck doesn't seem to want to go. My entire body freezes for no good reason as the goal gets ever closer.

'_It seems like she's going for a close range finish. She's within 5 metres of the goal now but still skating quickly. _

I finally manage to get the shot off and watch it sail into the netting. Unfortunately, it is not only the puck that ends up in the netting as I find myself overbalancing and unable to stop.

The next thing I know there is a pile of boarding, netting, goal posts, puck, padding and yours truly on the edge of the ice with a concerned Greg looking over it. I'm getting a strange sense of déjà vu from the previous practice.

'Quite a wipe-out!' Greg enthuses. 'Are you ok?'

I slowly nod, presuming that I am but really not entirely sure and continue to lie there as Greg clears up the debris around me. I try to mask a grimace as he helps me back to my feet and leads me to the safety of a less slippery surface.

'You were doing really well' he reassures me as he sits me down on a nearby bench.

I shrug, words still refusing to come out of my mouth.

'Are you going to tell me where it hurts or am I going to have to find out myself?

I shrug again, weighing up my options. I mean, just hours ago this would have been the perfect excuse to get me out of the tournament but now I simply can't face the possibility of being unable to play.

'Just my wrist' I offer 'No biggie.' I just hope that he doesn't notice that my stick is being carried in my left hand as I head into the changing room.

TBC


	3. Ice

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to everyone who had reviewed. I would love to name you all individually but sadly I am hard pushed for time as it is and thought it would be better if I got this part out rather than making you wait a couple of weeks for it just to have some names at the top.

Sorry that it has been so long in coming. I hope that you find it to have been worth the wait. On the apologies front, sorry if you got an alert a few hours ago saying that I had posted in one of my other fics 'Learning How to Deal' when I hadn't. I made a one word change to the last part and it caused a little confusion!

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this part and thank you for reading! I really hope that you don't find this chapter too short and/or too slow. I assure you that the next chapter will have lots more action.

* * *

I manage to shower and to throw on some clothes that I would class as normal, trying to block out the throbbing pain through steaming hot water and a sense of normality. Even by the time that I have left the changing room my wrist has turned an interesting combination of blues, purples and blacks, leaving me thankful that it is mostly covered up by my long sleeved top. 

'OK?' Greg asks as he greets me outside where he has been waiting. I smile as a form of response, adding in a 'Yeah' for good measure.

'C'mon, let's see the damage then.'

I admit that I hadn't exactly been expecting this one. If I'm honest, I thought that Greg might have forgotten. Thinking quickly, I roll up my right sleeve to show him one perfectly healthy wrist – rotating it gingerly as he looks for good measure.

'I'm paid to be observant, Sara, show me the wrist that you actually injured.'

I find it difficult to tell what Greg is thinking. He seems a little hurt that I think that he could be so easily fooled, yet at the same time both amused and confused that I am so keen to hide the injury from him. A part of me is screaming inside my head that I can't possibly show him the swollen and multi-coloured excuse for a limb as he'll never let me play in the tournament but in reality I know that I have little choice. Gently, I roll up my left sleeve to reveal the true nature of the injury.

'I'm pretty sure it's not broken, just a sprain or strain or something…' I trail off as Greg takes a look.

After a few seconds he looks up. 'Pretty nasty yeah, but add some ice now and then a wrist-brace and you'll be back on the ice by the morning.'

I'm shocked but can't help but grin. Now_ that_ was what I wanted to hear.

'We're due on shift in just over an hour if you want to head over to the lab early. We can grab some food on the way and then get some ice there…' It's Greg who trails off now, not as sure of himself as usual, seemingly wanting to cover himself in case I suggest that I have other plans.

'Sounds good' I reply and begin to make my way down the street. Greg walks beside and I don't think that I have laughed so hard in years as he tries to describe my wipe-out and then moves on to enthusing about a case that he had been working on a couple of nights back involving a carrot, a computer game and a grand piano – and a dead body of course.

We both order sandwiches and coffees to take-out from a small sandwich bar close to the lab before going into the break-room in order to eat and drink our purchases. By this time I have almost forgotten about my wrist. That is until Greg raids the fridge to find some ice.

'Really Greg, don't worry. I prefer my coffee hot anyway.' I joke but still find myself with an icepack being thrown in my direction. Rather impressed by a one handed low catch to my right, I smile, put the ice down on the table and proceed to sip my coffee and un-wrap my sandwich.

'Sara. Ice on wrist! Now! Really, you don't want to make me come over and do it for you!'

Greg's attempt at being authoritative has me cracking up with laughter once again and almost actually physically unable to carry out a task as simple as moving an icepack a matter of centimetres.

Greg rolls his eyes at my laughter and stops to think for a few seconds before raiding a drawer in the corner of the room with a grin on his face.

I try to ask him what he's looking for but struggle to form a sentence through my fits of laughter. Soon enough though, my question is answered as he walks over with a roll of masking tape and promptly uses it to wrap it round my wrist and the icepack.

'It's cold!' I exclaim as he completes his handiwork, suddenly able to control my laughter and to put on my 'I am not impressed' face.

'That's the idea.' Greg replies through a mouthful of his sandwich. 'Frozen H2O, works a charm.'

I munch on my own sandwich, trying to think about all the fantastic goals that I SO will score rather than the fact that I think my football sized wrist might be on the verge of dropping off from the cold.

* * *

Throughout the shift I find myself explaining to just about everyone who is breathing (OK, I admit it, and a couple who weren't...) what happened to my wrist as I seem to keep receiving questions regarding why it's such an interesting colour and why writing and I don't seem to be getting along very well. Perhaps more worrying though is the enthusiasm with which I seem to tell the story. In fact, every time that I describe the wipe-out, it seems to become more spectacular and every time I show my injury, I become every so slightly more proud of it. 

'So I take it that you're going for an X-ray and won't be able to play anymore?' Grissom asks, still smirking from my vivid account of the event.

'You're joking, right?' I look at him stunned, as though the thought had never crossed my mind.

'If I was joking, you'd be laughing right now.' Grissom replies in a typical witty manner. 'Seriously though, I'm not joking. You should get it looked at.'

I think about it for a while – ok, I admit, maybe a second or two. It is quite painful, and what if I have chipped a bone or something?

'It won't kill me.' I conclude out loud. 'I'll see you at the rink after the shift? I think a bit of shooting practice wouldn't go amiss.'


	4. Match Day

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this has been so long in coming. I would try to explain why but it would probably take up a lot of your valuable time and just get plain confusing. Just by the by, I have changed my mind and decided that the tournament in this fic will feature the other labs that have TV shows – namely NY and Miami.

Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. Personally, I don't like this part as much as the others and think the fic as a whole is going a little stale. For this reason I'm thinking that this only has another couple of chapters to go.

DISCLAIMER: Nope, still not mine.

* * *

To cut a long story short, the next week is filled with work and practices. Eating and sleeping become even more unimportant than normal and are simply inconveniences in my life. My wrist remains sore but gets a little better every day so that by the time of the tournament it is at least something approaching what it had been like for the majority of the last thirty years or so.

This would be the time in a movie that I would tell you that the day of the tournament dawned a bright and sunny one, that we were all totally psyched for it and that all the omens were good for a thrashing of the labs from Miami and New York – now apparently the only ones able to fly personnel over to Vegas. In fact, it's raining as I make my way to the rink. And not the kind of rain that gives a scene character and reflects mood only to reveal a rainbow later on. It's drizzling in a miserable fashion – not quite enough to merit an umbrella and yet enough to somehow soak into your shoes and leave your feet wet for the entire day. Add to that the fact that I have just finished working a double and that my specially made 'high-energy, post-shift snack' has just been discovered to have spent quality time in the break-room fridge with one of Grissom's experiments and you may well gather that I'm not in the best of moods when I arrive to find everyone else fully kitted out and waiting for me.

And, of course, I'm not at all bothered when I find Greg talking rather intimately to one of the CSIs from Miami. Calleigh - I think that's her name at least. I mean, I know it shouldn't bother me that one of my friends is talking to another CSI who is just visiting the city but… well, I'd be lying if I said that perfectly happy about it. OK, I admit it, it isn't helping matters that she's looking good even fully kitted out and having spent a good five hours in an aeroplane while I've gone for the wet, bedraggled look.

I change into my kit as quickly as I can and get chance to warm-up a bit. Maybe it's just me, but I've never quite been able to get my head around warming up on an ice rink. Anyway, Greg hits a couple of pucks in my direction and I set up a few for him to smash towards Grissom in the goal. I can't help but notice his gaze go over towards Calleigh once they rocket into the net though.

We move on to doing a few team drills. Catherine and Warrick are formidable in defence – making me rather grateful that I'm not going to be facing them – while Greg and Nick also seem to have formed a fearsome partnership upfront. And then there's me… I'm still working out what my role is. Greg seems to have moved on from the caring, supportive Greg of the last couple of weeks to a competitor with only winning on his mind.

And then it's time to start. We're up to play New York first. As a city, I've always been rather daunted of New York. It's just so big and the people so street-smart. Their team, captained by their supervisor, Mac, doesn't do much to help dispel my fear. I've seen them warming up and they certainly appear to be ice-smart.

As everyone takes their places on the ice I suddenly find myself fighting the urge to simply skate back off again. And I must look as terrified as I feel because I glance round to find everyone smiling reassuringly in my direction and Grissom giving me a thumbs-up from the goalmouth.

It's agreed that each game will have two periods of ten minutes – just to fit the matches into the evening - and, before I've even really realised what's happening, the first of these has started.

To be honest, I can't really tell you much about the first period, it's all a bit of a blur. I find myself skating around hopelessly, getting the puck now and then but not being able to do much with it. We're winning 2-1 at the break with Nick and Greg scoring a goal apiece. There's an immense sense of excitement surrounding Grissom's short team-talk.

'Nick, Greg – you're doing a great job. Their keeper doesn't look all that great – you might want to try a couple of shots from longer range to test him out.

'Catherine, Warrick – I'm nearly falling asleep in the goal you guys are doing so well. That tackle near the end of the period, Cath – I never knew you had it in you.'

'Sara….' Grissom pauses, 'just keep doing what you're doing.' This is followed by a repeat of the reassuring smiles all round. Needless to say, I am not impressed. No, in fact 'not impressed' wouldn't even start to cover it. Suddenly I find a new passion burning inside me. Sure, I might not be the greatest player in the world but the effort that I have put into the past couple of weeks is _not_ going to go to waste.

As soon as there is a blast of the hooter to mark the start of the second period, I'm off. Where-ever the puck goes, I'm after it – one hundred percent focussed on the lump of rubber flying all over the place.

At one point I swear that I even get close to scoring. I receive the puck from Warrick near the centre of the rink and skate forward a little before seeing Nick unmarked just to the right of the goal. I concentrate on his stick, aiming to be able to give him a simple tap him and yet somehow find the puck sailing just past the left hand post. I hear murmurings of 'great shot Sara' coming from the crowd and am simply too happy and/or embarrassed to admit that it might have been an attempted pass.

It can't be more than a minute after this when it happens. One of the New York team receives the puck from a team-mate. Suddenly I find myself with them dribbling towards both myself and the goal. Gritting my teeth I concentrate on the puck, blocking their route to the goal. And yet they are still dribbling right at me and suddenly it becomes a game of chicken-on-ice – a battle to find out who'll flinch first.

She's now less than two metres away with apparently no intention of anything but the direct route to the goal. Still I stand firm.

One metre. I confess, I'm starting to panic just a little bit but still I don't flinch. I refuse to let myself flinch. In fact, I think I'm too paralysed by fear to do anything other than stand my ground now. And apparently I'm not the only one too stubborn or afraid to change course.

A tangle of bodies falls downwards, everything in slow-motion.

'Not again' is the first thought into my mind as my skates fly into the air.

'Where the heck is the puck?' is my last thought before I crash down.

* * *

TBC 


End file.
